


It's Almost Sundown (Gotta Put My Foot Down)

by DirectorShellhead



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: BDSM, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, because Tony's not in the best frame of mind, but Tony wants to be there SO ANYWAY, contextless smut basically, don't look at me, not demonstrably safe/sane/consensual, retooled RP snippet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirectorShellhead/pseuds/DirectorShellhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here. Have a Tiberius Stone/Tony Stark ficlet that is really just a shameless excuse for rough sex in a warehouse and makes no sense ‘cuz it’s been plucked from an RP and retooled and has no context and no actual ending but just anyway shhhhhh don’t look at me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Almost Sundown (Gotta Put My Foot Down)

They’re being tailed by paparazzi. 

Tony finds he cannot possibly give less of a shit. 

He snarks at Ty about how he’s shit at evasive maneuvers, how he shouldn’t be allowed to own a Lamborghini if he’s going to drive like he’s 94 years old. 

Ty sneers at him, swats his thigh, says “Goddamn, Stark, you look like shit. Who died?”

Tony doesn’t snark at him anymore after that.

By the time they’re pulling into the old Stark Industries machining compound, Ty is actually starting to look remorseful, which, really, that’s a trick Tony had thought he’d put away on some dusty basement shelf way back in grade school. He doesn’t get out of the car right away, so Tony stays where he is in the passenger’s seat and stares dully out the window at the low-slung brick office building that had been the compound’s administrative headquarters some twenty-odd years ago. It’d been one of the first plants he’d shut down after taking over SI, and rather than dealing with the rezoning, he’d left it to rot, thinking one day it might prove useful again. 

It appears he’d been prescient in that line of thinking. Such a futurist. 

Ty is pulling out an etched flask and pulling the stopper, puzzling over at him while Tony refuses to acknowledge him. “So are we doing some kind of noir thing? Got a creepy hitchhiker-meets-slasher kink to play out, hmm? Seriously, this is all a bit…” Ty waves his hand around at the darkening compound, a dubious, nonplussed expression creeping over his features. “A bit _much_ , isn’t it? Why here?”

“Because it’s not a hotel,” Tony says flatly. 

“Ah, right. You always were the observant one.” 

“Press can’t get past the gates. Maybe I’m selling the place to Viastone. Maybe we’re negotiating a deal.” 

“I own a media conglomerate. What the fuck would we do with a machining compound in the ass-end-of-nowhere, New Jersey?”

“Point is, it plays in the press. Maybe I’m just sick of your shitty taste in hotels.”

“Right. And I still don’t pass muster to get through the doors of your pretty tower, huh.”

“Fuck no.” 

Tiberius chews on that a moment, taking a long swig from the flask and then passing it over. When Tony doesn’t take it, he pulls back, hesitant for the first time in as long as Tony can remember. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. That gonna be a problem?”

“Don’t know,” Ty says, curling his fingers into his palm and studying his knuckles. “You tell me. You know what’s coming.”  
  
Tony does. He thinks of their dead, all he owes them and how little he’d given; he thinks of Steve, and all he could’ve had but never will; and so he thinks of what’s coming, and he thinks that he wants to feel every second of it stone-cold sober, because liquor’s just another shroud between who he is and who he could and should have been. 

“Can we knock it off with the small talk and the bullshit? It’s unnecessary.”

Ty seems to ponder that, brow slightly furrowed, as he turns the recorked flask over and over in his palms. He keeps cutting his eyes over at Tony like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to reach some kind of decision. 

This time, when he puts his hand on Tony’s thigh, it’s not a swat, and it’ll leave no marks behind, because it’s just a caress, maybe even affectionate, somehow tentative, and it sends a sharp spike of fury through Tony’s core. “Tony, I don’t know what’s going on, but, you know, we could just go someplace, grab something to eat, and…we don’t have to—-“

Tony takes him by the throat and shoves him hard up against the glass of the driver’s side window. 

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare. That’s not what this is. Never was,” he snarls, then shoves him back as he snatches his hand free again and settles into the passenger seat. 

Ty remains plastered there against the door for a moment, eyes a fraction too wide, lips slightly parted. 

Tony watches as his pupils dilate and his whole form strings tight with the creeping rush of adrenaline.

“We understand each other, then?” Tony asks. 

“We do,” Ty grits out. “Now get the fuck out of my car, you pathetic piece of shit.”

Now that’s more like it. 

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Everything burns. 

The jagged grit and busted concrete under his knees. 

His shoulders, because Ty’s got his arms jacked way up behind him at an impossible angle. 

The chain biting into his bound wrists. 

The freezing December air of this unheated space, empty and vast, against his bare skin. 

His back, where Ty had laid down a red-welted pattern of bruising lashes before stringing him up like this. 

The muscle in his jaw, because Ty’s got his cock shoved thick and hard down his throat at the moment. 

His scalp where Ty’s got his hair bunched up into a fist, dragging him down hard and then back again, but never far enough so Tony can get any real air.  

His cheek, when Ty’s leather-gloved palm slaps against hit hard enough to make him see stars, because he’d forgotten not to look up, but down, only down. 

His lungs, because he can’t breathe like this and Tony’s eyes are watering and he’s trembling and starting to panic about the lack of oxygen and the tightening in his chest and it’s too much like the fucking cave and next there’ll be the water and he’ll be begging, saying “yes I’ll do it yes whatever you want yes just not that not again please not that” and he’ll be clutching a sparking battery with bloody fingers as live wires shock and sizzle from the hole they’ve carved right into the center of him…

“That’s the best you can do,” Ty quips, and even though there’s a breathless edge to his words, mostly they just drip with languid disgust. “Really, he says, and kicks Tony’s left knee out from under him so that he falls forward, further down on Ty as he thrusts right into the soft spot at the back of Tony’s throat, and Tony’s gagging then, scrambling, fighting when he should be past all this by now, down deep in that space where everything’s a subtly vibrating blur of nerve-hot pain and there’s only being told what to do and doing it, no room left for thought or fight or anything else. 

“Mother _fucker_ , you’ve got to be kidding me!” Ty snarls then, and _rips_  Tony off his cock forcefully enough that there’s no way for Tony to counterbalance, not with his arms like they are, so he lands hard on his shoulder and rolls to his side, gasping, thinking hey, at least he hadn’t broken the fall with his face, too bad, so sorry, no field day for the press this time. 

Ty is spewing a steady string of curses under his breath as he rummages around in his jacket pocket and pulls out a phone, which has gone off ringing for possibly the fifth or sixth time in a row now, though Tony hasn’t kept good track, being otherwise engaged. 

“I swear to god, Stark, if this is one of your little paparazzi whores trying to get a line, I’m gonna,” Ty seethes, kicking at him with the toe of his boot, and Tony supposes that this means Ty wants him back on his knees, not bunched up on the ice-cold concrete on his side. 

He mostly manages this, though it takes another jab in the ribs to really get him moving. 

Ty stabs at his phone with his index finger, puts it to his ear, snarls “Who the _fuck_ is this.” 

Tony forgets again that he’s not supposed to be looking up, only down, or maybe it’s just that he’s past caring and nowhere close to that blissed out, endorphin-laden hum that he’s been hoping would settle over him to quell the constant riot of thought and grief and regret churning around inside his head. 

Ty really kicks him then, not just a less-than-gentle nudge with his toe, but a full-on kick, a shin right to the fucking gut, and Tony makes a long groaning breathless noise like _hhhhhnnngh_ and crumples, choking, until he’s got his forehead pressed to the ground and his knees tucked up under himself, solar plexus spasming as a tight, sharp ache spreads through his ribs. 

 _Now we’re getting somewhere_ , he thinks. 

Tiberius hauls Tony up by the hair, shoving him back against the wall and then bracing his phone between his shoulder and cheek, so that when he crouches down, he’s got both hands free and is looking at Tony eye to eye. 

“Tip-top shape, huh?” he says into the phone, voice syrupy with condescension, though his black-blown pupils stay locked on Tony’s face.

One gloved hand slides under the angle of Tony’s jaw with infinite gentleness, thumb scraping lightly along the thick stubble there, and he leans in to press a feather-light kiss high up on each of Tony’s cheekbones, just under his eyes. 

It makes Tony shiver and huff out a shuddery breath as he tries to turn his face aside, because there’s nothing grounding in the touch and he wants nothing to do with tenderness, be it mocking or sincere, right now. 

“I think we can manage that, can’t we, pet,” Ty says to Tony in an indulgent whisper. The smile he turns on him then is wicked, unmistakably hungry. His other hand skims over the arc reactor before moving lower, down and down over his tensed abs. Tony stiffens, jerks under the press of Ty’s leathered grip and makes an involuntary noise deep in his throat that he can’t bite back, but the hand Ty’s got on his jaw moves to his throat, clamping down to push him back against the dusty concrete divider.

“You want to pick up strays, sugar, I suggest you try the pound. This one’s all mine, and I’ll be keeping him right where he wants to be,” he says, and then turns off the phone and tosses it aside. 

“What the fuck are you doing,” Tony chokes out, “what the _fuck_ are you doing answering the phone, are you really that st—”

Ty’s kissing him then, all nipping teeth and insistent tongue as his fingertips dig into the sides of Tony’s neck, pushing into his carotid until he’s dizzy and sees only black and red and blurs of brilliant white as his breath drags hard through his lungs. Ty drags down his pants and hauls Tony into his lap by the backs of his thighs, drapes his chained wrists back over the hook in the wall behind them. 

“Look at me,” Ty coaxes, and swipes some kind of slick over his ass with fingers bruising enough to feel like leather-cased stone. Tony writhes furiously, spits “fuck you” back at him, which only makes Ty’s grin quirk up on one side.

“That’s what we’re here for, hmm? Well, apparently, time’s wasting. Let’s,” he says, and plows straight into him. 

Even in this, though, there’s no real solace to be had; there’s just the gut-deep burning ache of it, the bone-jostling force with which Ty sets their pace, the spinning, lurching rush of endorphins flooding his too-long-overtaxed system. 

But finally, _finally_ , for a few precious minutes, Tony locks blank eyes on the rust-stained riggings on the far wall and ignores the steady stream of filth Ty is hissing into his ear and doesn’t think about anything else at all. 

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

“I”m done with you now,” Ty is saying. “You can get up.” 

Tony supposes that maybe he can. 

“Get up, Stark.” 

Or maybe he can’t. 

“Tony, what the fuck,” Ty says, kneeling down beside him and stroking a bare hand over Tony’s shoulder and down his back, fingertips skimming like firebrands over raw skin. 

“Get off me,” Tony mutters into his forearm, “I just, I have to, I.” 

“You’re shaking, let me—”

“Fuck off.” 

Ty’s sigh is sharply audible as he drops back onto his heels. “Still gonna be stubborn even after all that, huh.” 

“Looks like it.” 

“Well, I don’t like how it looks.”

“Does it look like I fucking care?”

“It looks like you’re a fucking mess, that’s what it looks like.”

“Good job, then.”

“You were a fucking mess before we ever walked in here,” Ty says, and the grit on the floor grinds under his boots as he stands up. Tony laughs and laughs into the crook of his arm, laughs into the concrete floor, because Ty is slipping; Ty is getting sloppy; Ty is sounding like he used to a million years ago before everything went to shit between them, like maybe he’s actually concerned about him. 

There’s a soft thud just shy of his face as Ty drops Tony’s clothes down beside him. “You should let me get you cleaned up,” he says as Tony’s pushing himself up onto his elbows, sucking in slow breaths through his nose because the room is spinning and little erratic shivers keep stumbling their way through his muscles. 

“And then what? You want to cuddle? Bundle up under the blankets and watch a chick flick? The fuck is wrong with you,” Tony snaps at him, sitting up fully only to gasp and brace his palms on the floor to either side of himself as his spine and pelvis shift. 

Something dark and fractured mars Ty’s features for a split second, before he looks away. “Just get dressed,” he mutters, picking up his ruined gloves and shoving them deep into his coat pockets. “You’re probably going to have visitors show up if we don’t get out of here soon.”


End file.
